Comments and Reviews would be welcome as always. :3
Geez, poll was a bit one sided it seemed but I also recognise the worries of those who don't want me to steer this fanfic into another direction. So while future Jon etc are going to be reincarnated into my story that is going to be another (side?) story entirely sometime in the future and not have an influence on the main one. Basically like Marvel's What if (which this story is also basically but oh well).
Seventh Moon of 285 AC, Frostgate:
POV: Maester Theomore
The towers of Frostgate loomed above like something from a fever dream—too smooth, too symmetrical, too cubic, too... unhuman. Maester Theomore adjusted his cloak as the wind picked up, flaring dust across the stone courtyard, his companions (two scribes and a few guards just in case) trailing behind him. The soldiers at the gatehouse had let him in after a tense silence, offering no escort save for a young scribe who spoke with unsettling precision.
"I am here by order of the Citadel," he said once brought before Lady Lyarra Skywalker in her private solar. He had hoped to be greeted by Lord Skywalker but atleast his sister knew not to anger the citadel. "To offer my services as the castle's appointed maester. A gift of Oldtown to honor your house's accomplishments."
Lyarra had not even risen from her seat.
"We do not require a maester," she said flatly.
He blinked. "You misunderstand, my lady. This is not simply a suggestion—"
"We have no need for one. And I am not in the habit of hosting guests who attempt to override our needs with their own assumptions."
Theomore bristled. "By the customs of the realm, all keeps above a certain size—"
"This is Skane," she cut in smoothly, "not the Reach."
For a moment, silence. Then she gestured to the scribe. "See to it Maester Theomore is given a chamber for the night. He'll return to Oldtown on the morning tide."
Her dismissal was polite but final.
Later that night he and his companions prowled the second ring of the keep with a lamp and a carefully neutral expression. No guards challenged him, though he saw some of them in that strange blue armor watching from the shadows—those strange, silent warriors with eyes like stormglass.
He reached the central keep.
The library was modest in size but pristine. The air smelled of parchment and salt.
There, tending the scrolls with methodical care, was a middle aged woman—around fifty—with silver hair, spectacles and an awkward gait.
"Excuse me, may I ask where I find the maester uhhh librarian of this castle?" he asked politely.
"I am Jocasta Nu, the current librarian of Frostgate, maester" the woman said curtly without looking at him.
"A woman is the librarian of this castle?" Theomore asked incredulously.
"That is indeed the case."
"You trained at the Citadel?" he asked despite knowing that it was unlikely this Skagosi woman could have disguised herself at the citadel and return to Skagos without anyone finding out about her.
"No. But I can read. And I know numbers... and when I am not welcome."
"I see," Theomore said, stepping closer. "And tell me—how long has Frostgate stood as it is now?"
"For about 5 moons now probably."
Theomore, speechless, left shortly after, more disturbed than enlightened. He quickly dragged his two scribes with him, returned to his chamber and wrote a brief report by candlelight before burning it again and deciding to tell the conclave himself what he had seen here.
The Skywalkers are not merely ambitious—they are unnatural. If what I have seen is allowed to grow unchecked, they will upend the balance of the realm.
He did not sleep that night.
**Scene Break**
Maester Theomore never reached Oldtown.
Shortly after his ship had left the rising Skyport, he had collapsed without prior symptoms and died shortly after. His scribes could find no obvious cause of death. Neither would they at Oldtown.
**Scene Break**
Pov Lyarra Skywalker:
The snow fell soft and slow over the ramparts. Lyarra stood alone near the central tower's overlook, a folded raven-letter in hand confirming what she already knew.
She heard the footsteps before they reached her.
Asajj, cloaked in grey wool and bone trinkets, joined her at the parapet. The witch's eyes were unreadable, her expression serene, uncaring.
"Librarian Jocasta let a few things slip during her conversation with the infiltrator" Asajj said.
Lyarra didn't look at her. "I assumed as much."
"He knew too much, but not enough."
A beat of silence.
Lyarra turned, meeting Asajj's gaze. "Thank you."
She rested a hand lightly on the witch's shoulder. "You did well."
Asajj gave a small bow of her head. "His death was quick, None will accuse us of being involved."
Lyarra looked out across the keep below, its concentric rings glowing faintly in the dark, lanterns burning and keeping the place clean of... undesirables.
"We'll need to be more careful," she murmured. "This won't be the last they send."
"No," said Asajj. "But they'll be more cautious next time."
**Scene Break**
Seventh Moon of 285 AC, Winterfell:
POV: Eddard Stark
Things had been going very well the past few moons, especially with the mood at Winterfell a lot better these days. He missed the visits to Alysanne who was now at Frostgate but it was better that way for the relationship to Catelyn had been a lot better since then, he had even allowed her request for a small sept to be built. As long as no septon came to start a converting campaign, where was the harm in letting her pray to her gods? Especially now when she was pregnant again and it proved to be rather difficult for his lady wife.
In other news, taxes this year proved to be very promising after all the inventions that the twins had gifted him. He had immediately set up a soap house where all of Winterfell's and Wintertown's soap means were covered. Seeing the immense success and the improvements in cleanliness and health to not only his people but his family and himself too he had Maester Luwin sent letters of the creation process to other lords of the north and the citadel. By now from what he had heard soap was used by all noble families and the wealthier smallfolk and the use would only continue to spread.
The wheelbarrow though useful was a small improvement and used mainly by folks who didn't have access to a horse or an oxen. The saw and water mill on the other hands had increased productivity a lot in certain areas which had made especially the Glovers, Cerwyns, Dustins and the Ryswells very happy.
And finally there was his new vassal house, House Skywalker lead by his brother and sister themselves. They had promised that they would send some of their found riches his way as a one time gift before they started paying regular taxes.
If his expectations of this year's taxes were proven true then the reconstruction of Moat Cailin could truly begin.
Just then Maester Luwin entered the room with an apology and left a letter bound in northern leather and sealed with wax impressed by the Skywalker seal on his desk before leaving again. A curious design but a nice one.
Ned broke the seal in the quiet of his solar, the fire still low from the early morning frost. He read slowly, twice, then a third time, brow furrowing deeper with each pass.
"Ned, I need you to contact someone for me. A maester in the Citadel. One who mostly keeps to himself and his experiments. His name is Qyburn. I do not know what archmaesters whisper about him, but I know what he studies. I will not explain why. Just trust me. Discretion is key. No ravens. If the Citadel is watching us, we must not let them see our eyes watching back."
Ned exhaled, setting the parchment down beside his wine. Lyarra and Torrhen had made their suspicions about the citadel clear during their last stay at Winterfell and expressed no sadness when Ned had mentioned the sudden death of Walys before they had left for Skane. Their lack of reaction to the death had even back then confused him, now he knew that it was likely Walys' death had been at the hands of the twins.
He had grown used to the strangeness that followed his half-siblings. Tales of his halfsiblings being blessed by the gods not just because of their rebirth all those years ago but because a castle had seemingly risen out of nowhere on the previously uninhabited island of Skane.
But Ned had seen them both in simpler times—children with sharp minds and soft hearts. Now? Now they commanded a growing port, had their own bannermen in the two remaining Skagosi houses and two new wildling lords.
He walked to the window. From here, Winterfell stretched like a memory—a thousand lives folded into stone and snow. But the changes were real. Skane's gold had rebuilt the broken keep, fed half a dozen struggling holdfasts, and would soon start to turn Moat Cailin into a proud future once again.
Who would have thought father that siring bastard twins on a whore would be the best thing you ever did for the north. For of the four trueborn children you had, two died because of their own foolishness and the other two... well I guess it remains to be seen how Benjen and I will contribute to the North in the future.
Of course Ned hadn't forgotten that he had won the war his sister the gods bless her soul had helped start but while it had avenged the death of his brother and father it hadn't helped the North all that much. The north was still almost as isolated as before and from what Ned had seen during Robert's visit, his foster brother wasn't all that interested in the ruling aspect of kingship.
Huh, I am straying a lot with my thoughts there thought Ned with an amused smile. Perhaps it was time for bed.
No, Ned should have guessed that his half siblings wouldn't have accepted a maester sent by the Citadel, though Ned found it a bit suspicious that the maester sent by the citadel had died suddenly shortly after leaving Skyport and without clear reason.
But what in the gods' names did she want with a maester he'd never heard of?
He turned, muttering, "And how am I supposed to send word to a single man in Oldtown without half the Citadel knowing?"
He knew only one path forward.
**Scene Break**
Eighth Moon of 285 AC, The Water Gardens:
POV: Doran Martell
The water gardens shimmered in the late afternoon light, children laughing as their feet splashed through shallow pools. Doran Martell watched them from a shaded balcony, a letter in his hands and a slow smile touching his lips.
"It seems the Starks do have a certain trust in us.," he murmured. "Lord Stark has approached me with a request to discreetly contact a maester called Qyburn on behalf of Lyarra Skywalker who wishes the man's services."
Opposite him, Oberyn lounged in a low chair, a goblet of orange wine balanced loosely in his fingers.
"She asked for Qyburn?" Oberyn arched a brow. "That's a name I haven't heard in years."
"You know of him?" Doran asked.
"I met him briefly in Oldtown, he is a curious fellow, smart too, but with some odd... ideas you could say. Already then he had the dream to study the human body in detail and I have no doubts that he would have soon turned to questionable methods." He tilted the goblet. "And now Lady Lyarra wants to find him? I'm intrigued:"
Doran steepled his fingers. "I imagine she's not the only one. The Citadel's been sniffing around the North for months now. Something is stirring, and the Snow twins are at its center."
"They saved Elia," Oberyn said, eyes sharp. "That alone earns them more than one favor."
He stood. "I'll go."
"You?" Doran raised an eyebrow.
"Why not? Ellaria's been restless, and the girls are always begging to travel." He smiled faintly. "Besides, I want to see how Qyburn has done for himself. If he's clever enough to hide from the Archmaesters and bold enough to interest one of the miracle bastards of Skane, then I want to know what he knows."
Doran said nothing for a moment. Then: "Be careful. He could be dangerous."
Oberyn shrugged. "So am I."
**Scene Break**
Eighth Moon of 285 AC, The Citadel in Oldtown:
POV: Oberyn Martell
The halls of the Citadel had not changed much since Oberyn had last walked them—long rows of carved stone archways, dimly lit by narrow windows, their corners perpetually scented by a mix of parchment, candle wax, and dried herbs. He passed beneath the ringing of bells from the Ravenry and offered a nod to a passing maester who squinted at him before recognition flickered in his eyes.
"Prince Oberyn?" the man called, blinking rapidly. "Seven hells, how have you aged almost nothing since I last saw you?"
Oberyn grinned. "I'd wager I looked older at twenty than I do now, Maester Morys. Or have you grown younger in my absence?"
The man laughed and clasped Oberyn's wrist. "What madness brings the Red Viper back to our quiet halls?"
Oberyn's eyes sparkled. "Curiosity. And perhaps a touch of nostalgia."
Over the next few days, Oberyn made himself a familiar fixture once more. He spent afternoons discussing bloodletting and leechcraft with the more traditional healers, shared meals with old acquaintances who had since earned their chains, and lingered over texts on obscure Valyrian physiology and things like just why Aegon the Conqueror set his sights on Westeros when he could have recreated Valyria. He was polite, incisive, and never stayed long enough in one place to invite deeper questioning.
But beneath the charm was a hunt.
He asked, subtly, about radical minds—those who pushed boundaries, challenged the Citadel's revered caution. Most dodged the question. A few muttered of banned books, even fewer spoke names. One did.
"Qyburn," said the young acolyte, no older than twenty and with a half-forged silver link around his neck. "They don't like talking about him. Says he's been cutting up corpses. And maybe not just corpses."
Oberyn raised an eyebrow. "He's still here?"
"Barely. They keep trying to pretend he isn't. But I heard Archmaester Vaellyn say they'd be rid of him soon. 'Not fit for the robes,' he said."
It took Oberyn two more days to find Qyburn. The man had been pushed into one of the lesser towers, a place meant for quiet alchemical storage but now littered with preserved organs in cloudy jars and scrolls written in a jagged, ink-blotted hand.
When Oberyn stepped inside, Qyburn did not look up at first.
"I told you, Benedict," he muttered, "I have no interest in debating the ethics of dissection again today."
"I'm not Benedict," Oberyn said smoothly.
Qyburn turned. His eyes were sunken, his beard patchy, and his robes stained with some dark, oily residue.
"Oh." The man's brow furrowed, then looked at the sun and spear on Oberyn's clothes. "What's a Martell doing here? Are you an acolyte?"
"Searchig for you," Oberyn said. "No I am not though I could accept 'former acolyte,' for nostalgia's sake."
Qyburn tilted his head. "What brings a prince of Dorne into my chamber of castoffs?"
Oberyn stepped forward, studying the jars. "Curiosity. And a message. From the North."
At that, Qyburn's curiosity sharpened. "The North?"
"From Skane. Frostgate, to be precise."
Qyburn blinked. "The Skywalkers."
"You've heard of them, then."
"Who hasn't? The bastards who lived. Builders of a castle within an impossible timeframe though that castle probably was there already and they just happened to stumble upon it if you ask me. Even here, in the heart of tradition, the name reaches ears—usually followed by mutters about sorcery and machines." His lips curled faintly. "What do they want with me?"
"To offer you a future," Oberyn said. "Once your time here ends—and I think we both know it will end soon."
Qyburn's fingers twitched. "You're not wrong. The maesters already hold meetings without me. They say I lack the proper reverence. That I... abuse the gift of study."
"Do you?"
A pause.
"I seek truth," Qyburn said. "And I do not fear what must be done to reach it."
Oberyn gave a slow nod. "Then you may be exactly what the Skywalkers need. They are building something... new, I believe."
Qyburn's voice dropped. "They want me to help?"
"They want you to come. The help will come after. They offer no chains. Only the freedom to explore your craft—and a warning not to cross their lines."
Qyburn looked at him then, truly looked. "Why you? Why would a Dornish prince carry this offer?"
"I owe a favor," Oberyn said simply. "And I find the idea of shaking old towers… appealing."
Silence followed.
At last, Qyburn nodded. "Tell them I will come. Not yet, I still have business here. But when they cast me out, I'll go north. Not to Winterfell. To Frostgate."
Oberyn smiled. "I'll deliver your promise."
As he turned to leave, Qyburn called after him. "Tell them I won't come empty-handed."
Oberyn glanced back, getting the sense that this man could push the boundaries of what was currently possible.
**Scene Break**