Comments and Reviews would be welcome as always. :)
For those who skipped the last post. Look guys I know many of you are not exactly happy with Torrhen's failures but my mc is not perfect, he never will be. He is not some genius from our world just a highschool kid that got gunned down before his graduation and then got reborn in got and later found a portal to the minecraft overworld. He will make mistakes just like we all do. If you want to have an mc that doesn't make stupid decisions from time to time and has a godlike view on everything (which I can understand as I like to read that too sometimes) then this is not the fanfic for you.
Have a nice day.
Seventh Moon of 286 AC, King's Landing – The Blackwater Docks:
POV: Lyarra Skywalker
The tide whispered against the hull as Skywalker's ship bobbed gently in the darkened harbor. No banners flew, no names were given. The dockworkers asked no questions—the kind of discretion gold could buy in the capital.
Lyarra was long filled with guilt over the entire affair but Torrhen had made it clear to her that even if Elia and the others had had potions with them when the slavers attacked, they would have only caused more enemy casualties. Fighting against more than a hundred while being surrounded? Potions enhanced you, sure, but they didn't take you to superhuman levels of strength and stamina.
Eventually Lyarra accepted that nothing short of the supersoldier serum would have saved Elia and the others.
Lyarra stood at the prow with arms crossed, watching the flickering lanterns of the city beyond. The walls of King's Landing loomed like slumbering giants under the moonlight, the Red Keep perched atop the hill like a bloodstained crown. She felt every instinct scream at her to follow her brother.
But he had been clear.
"You wait here. Keep the ship ready. If I do not return by dawn, as unlikely as that is, then I was caught and have had to cut my way out. In that case simply sail to Skyport"
She hated it. Hated being left behind. But she knew this wasn't a mission of politics. Or war. This was vengeance.
"You will not go alone" she said firmly and he nodded in agreement after which she motioned to a few of the diamond guard who had until now stood cloaked and silent, faces obscured, weapons hidden beneath long traveling coats. One of the Faithful paced slowly by the gangplank, fingers twitching toward her belt pouch. A minute later, Torrhen and four diamond guards disembarked the ship and began walking towards the Red Keep.
**Scene Break**
POV: Torrhen Skywalker
The streets of the city stank of fish oil and filth, but Torrhen and the others moved through them like a ghost. Their hoods were low, armor concealed beneath a dark cloak, the cobbled alleys offering quiet passage toward the looming Red Keep.
As he reached the shadowed slope of Aegon's Hill, he ducked behind a cluster of barrels near a shuttered spice vendor and stripped off his armor piece by piece. With practiced calm, he retrieved a flask of cloudy, amber liquid from his belt. One gulp.
The air shimmered around him.
He vanished.
The others, like him, did similiarly in likewise secluded locations.
The potion's magic wrapped around them like mist—cool, silent, clinging to their skin and faint bubbles rose in place of their bodies especially after another batch of potions was drunk, night vision followed by swiftness+, strength, slow falling and leaping II. They had underused potions before, but not this time. This time he went all out. Mayhaps it was necessary, mayhaps it wasn't but these were definitely helpful in their endeavor.
With quick but careful steps they went towards they the outer gates of the Red Keep just as two guards paused to light their torches. They went around until they saw a spot on the walls where they would not be heard and jumped up. Landing on the He slid by, a breath from discovery.
They made their way past familiar halls, the torchlight flickering off polished stone as memories flashed in front of Torrhen's mind before he pushed them away. The Keep was quiet this time of night. Only the occasional clink of a patrol's armor or the whisper of a turning page from some late-working scribe disturbed the silence. Torrhen and the others climbed stairwells, bypassed guards, and ducked through servant passages—all burned into his memory from his last visit years ago.
He had always known he'd come back. Just not like this.
**Scene Break**
Pov: Varys
Varys sat alone in his candle-lit chamber of scrolls and secrets, robed in thick velvet. A letter lay open before him, sealed in gold wax bearing the symbol of his good friend who had finally sent a raven after prolonged silence. And what a raven it was.
Illyrio's script was elegant, as ever:
"He knows... about all of it, all of what we had dreamed for the future. How I cannot be sure but I blame it on these greendreaming powers of him that he is rumoured to have. But that's not all about him. He came in the night like a demon, went past my guards as if they weren't there or more like as if he wasn't there. I had those posted on my doors interrogated and they saw and heard nothing. Neither did those posted throughout my manse. I gave him everything he asked for. He left me bleeding and afraid. The Stark bastard is not just clever—he is dangerous. He will not stop. Get your affairs in order and go into hiding. I have already contacted the faceless men but it will take time until I know how much they will take for his head. I hope they don't know how dangerous he is, I can already hear my funds taking a big hit."
Varys exhaled through his nose and muttered aloud, not again. Again Torrhen Skywalker proved to be an obstacle in his and Illyrio's vision for Westeros but this seemed to be worse than anything before.
It seemed like Skywalker's unnaturalness didn't end with his dreams of the future, and Varys was all but completely sure that the boy did indeed have these dreams as rumours suggested. No, apparently the boy had something else up his sleeve and Varys liked it not one bit.
The ultimate question was, just how many people did the Skywalkers have to sacrifice everytime they used their strange magic for it was certainly powerful and such magics always required a steep price in blood. Varys sighed.
"Perhaps it's time I take… a vacation. Somewhere quiet. Somewhere very far from Westeros…"
A sudden light crack from behind.
He turned.
And froze.
Torrhen Skywalker stood in the torchlight, behind him three men and a woman in this blue painted plate armor. Skywalker's expression was carved from stone, his eyes burning with restrained fire.
"No need to pack your things eunuch, you're going down harder than the Titanic in 1912" Whatever a Titanic was, though he guessed it was a ship, Varys knew that he stood no chance to escape all five of his enemies. Varys stumbled back, lips parting in horror. "Guards—!"
"No," Torrhen said simply. "They're unconscious. Sleeping. Like rats in a winter burrow."
Varys backed into a desk, knocking scrolls to the floor. "You… you don't understand. Everything I did was for the realm—"
"You and your friend had a child murdered," Torrhen said, voice low and terrible. "Your friend poisoned a woman who had already lost one of her children. For a lie. For a Blackfyre puppet who will never rule."
Varys paled. "It wasn't supposed to go that way—Illyrio moved too quickly—I only wanted to—"
Torrhen took a small vial from his belt. The vial's insides glimmered a sickly green in the firelight.
"This is poison from the pale dunes of Qarth," he said, unstopping the vial. "Colorless. Odorless. Absorbed through the skin. Slow. Painful. Irreversible. No need to drink it, any contact with it makes it work, and it works wonderfully." Skywalker said with a dark smile. Varys raised his hands, trembling. "Please—think of the realm—"
Torrhen splashed the contents in his face.
Varys screamed.
He stumbled backward, clawing at his cheeks, his eyes bulging as his skin began to blister and darken. His voice broke into gasps and sobs as the poison worked its way down his throat and into his lungs.
Torrhen watched him writhe on the ground, no pity in his eyes, "Elia sends her regards."
Minutes passed. The eunuch's twitching slowed. His breath came shallow and finally the poison stopped working as Varys was all but dead. Another few minutes later and the pain began to lessen but just as Varys started hoping that maybe he had been spared, a sword was thrusted through his chest and heart and soon Varys knew no more.
The last thing he saw was Torrhen Skywalker turning away.
His last thoughts were Damn you Skywalker
**Scene Break**
Seventh Moon of 286 AC, King's Landing, Red Keep – The Tower of the Hand:
POV: Torrhen Skywalker
The moon hung high above Maegor's Holdfast when Torrhen and the Diamond Guard crossed the shadowed inner courtyard. Cloaks drawn close, footsteps silent, they moved like spirits among stone with Lukarion holding a stone button so the others knew where to follow him to as only he had ever stepped foot into the Red Keep.
"There," Torrhen whispered. "Top floor. The office of the Hand of the King."
The Tower of the Hand loomed above them, its windows dark save for the faintest glimmer at the very top. A single light, flickering weakly behind glass. Torrhen could sense it: the presence of knowledge. Secrets behind those stones. Truths worth killing for.
He motioned once.
The four Diamond Guard followed without a word.
They ascended quickly after drinking another set of potions as their time was running out.
When they reached the upper landing, Torrhen stopped short.
A knight stood before the Hand's chamber door. White cloak. Polished armor. A Kingsguard.
Huh, he hadn't expected that.
Not a Lannister soldier. Not a Red Keep guard. A Kingsguard. And not even a competent one.
Meryn Trant.
Torrhen's stomach turned. He remembered the scenes and how Trant had almost seemed eager to beat a 14 year old Sansa bloody and to undress her. The cold compliance with evil dressed as duty. Trant was the kind of man who hid behind a white cloak, then defiled everything it was meant to represent.
"You're a long way from your whores, Trant," Torrhen muttered under his breath.
Meryn stiffened at the faint sound, but too late.
Torrhen struck fast—low, silent, and clean.
A flash of obsidian. A twist of bone. Meryn gurgled once, collapsing without even drawing his sword. His blood soaked into the stones in silence.
"Too quick for you," Torrhen said as he wiped the blade. "Far too quick."
One of the Faithful, silent and grim, knelt beside the corpse. He was the same height, close enough in build. From his satchel he drew a vial of quick-putty and a fine mesh mask. Within minutes, with the helmet donned and the white cloak settled over his shoulders, he stood as Meryn Trant reborn—at least from the neck down.
The others moved the body, taking it and prepaing to pull it with them into Jon Arryn's office.
Torrhen knocked once on the door. A light tap.
No response.
He pushed it open only to find the hand was snoring slightly, his head on the desk.
**Scene Break**
POV: Jon Arryn
He was having troubled dreams about a stag getting killed by a boar when suddenly he felt like he was drowning.
Jon Arryn stirred with a grunt, his head rising slowly from a pile of scrolls and parchment.
"Who in their right mind—?"
His eyes blinked in confusion, bleary from sleep—until they locked onto Torrhen Skywalker. And then the corpse in the corner.
Three masked figures stood near it, the unmistakable white cloak of a Kingsguard soaked in a pool of dark red.
Jon straightened. His voice was calm, but steel lay beneath, "I must say, Lord Skywalker, I did not expect you here in King's Landing—though perhaps I should have, considering Lady Elia Martell is soon to arrive. Still, I hope you have a good explanation for why you stand in my chambers at this hour… uninvited. And just what Ser Meryn did to deserve death."
Torrhen stepped forward, his tone even, "I do, my lord. Meryn Trant had a particular fondness for young girls—especially those too frightened to fight back. I hold a deep disdain for men like that. Given the opportunity, I acted."
Jon exhaled slowly and ran a hand over his face, "I see. We'll need to find a replacement soon enough. And the other explanation?"
Torrhen's expression shifted—grief washing over his face like a tide, "Elia and her son Aegon are dead. Ser Arthur Dayne as well."
Jon's spine straightened sharply, "What? That can't be. They were waylaid briefly at the Sisters, yes, but they're en route to King's Landing. They should be arriving within a day or two."
Torrhen shook his head grimly, "Now I know why no one's reacted yet. Varys—our dear Master of Whisperers—collaborated with slavers and a Magister of Pentos. They intercepted Elia's ship. Aegon was murdered before Rhaenys's eyes. Ser Arthur died defending them. Rhaenys escaped—barely. She's at Frostgate, but deeply trumatised."
Jon was silent, stunned. His mouth opened, then closed. Finally, he said softly, "I had heard… that you and Elia were close and that she had just given birth to your daughter.. I'm sorry for your loss."
Torrhen nodded in thanks, "There's little you could have done. No indication that Varys would act without the king's leave. But don't worry about the eunuch. I've handled him."
Jon regarded him a long moment, then gave a single nod, "Is there anything else, Lord Skywalker? Besides a dead Kingsguard in my chamber and a web of murder to untangle?"
Torrhen's gaze darkened, "Aye. There is." He stepped forward, voice tightening with anger, "Why did you marry Lysa Tully?"
Jon blinked, "I… beg your pardon?"
"She was barely a woman grown when you married her four years ago. Have you no shame?" Jon sighed, weariness lining every word, "I know. Believe me, I know. I would not have done so had I not needed an heir so desperately. And even then, it brought stability to the realm. I am willing to bear her scorn for that."
Torrhen tilted his head, watching him closely. "And yet your efforts have failed. Two pregnancies—two miscarriages. I'm right, aren't I?"
Jon's lips thinned, he had kept that quiet since he didn't want to put even more pressure on the poor girl, "...Yes... Is that something you saw in one of these greendreams that Ned told me about?" Jon asked quietly.
Torrhen nodded, "Aye. And more. I know why the miscarriages happened."
Jon said nothing—just waited and waved for the young man in front of him to continue.
"Before she married you, Lysa was pregnant by Petyr Baelish, who was fostering at Riverrun at the time. She loved him. Her father forced her to drink moon tea—too late into the pregnancy. It hurt her. Broke something inside her, body and spirit both. And her marriage to you and the fact that she has miscarried twice now hasn't helped."
Jon's face crumpled with a mix of shame, grief, and something like helpless rage, "I… I don't know what to say. Even if it's true, what could I possibly do now?"
Torrhen's voice softened, "What if I had something that could restore her? Give her back what was lost?"
Jon's eyes narrowed, "If that were true… well, I suspect you want something in return."
Torrhen didn't hesitate, "I want you—and His Grace—to look the other way when I begin recruiting the poor of King's Landing for a standing army on Skane."
Jon raised a brow, "A private army? For what purpose?"
"To protect the North. The Reach and Dorne may stay quiet for now, but I don't trust them forever even if I am on good terms with the Martells. And I've seen things… things coming, really bad things coming but don't worry about that just yet. This isn't about rebellion, Lord Hand. I swear on my father's blood—I won't raise these swords against you or the king."
Jon studied him, then slowly nodded, "Very well. I believe Robert won't really care in either way anyway. But if I do this, I'll need a new Master of Whisperers. You wouldn't happen to know a suitable replacement, would you?"
Torrhen allowed himself a small, cold smile, "A few come to mind. Roose Bolton. Doran Martell. Olenna Tyrell. All cunning in their own right."
Jon nodded again, "Understood."
Then something appeared in young Torrhen's hand, a vial with a red liquid inside. Soon two of those vials and a apple with a gold shine layed on Jon's desk. Jon didn't know what these would do but trusted the young man in front of him enough so he nodded in thanks.
A silence fell between them. At last, Jon asked, "Anything else, my Lord?"
Torrhen turned to go, pausing just at the threshold, "Only this: good luck with your wife. Her mental state is becoming worse. You'll need it."
Then he vanished into the night, leaving the Hand of the King alone with the corpse of a Kingsguard—and far more questions than answers.
**Scene Break**
Pov: Torrhen Skywalker
Torrhen left the tower of the hand with his guards and motioned for the man pretending to be Meryn Trant to take off the armor and lay it in Jon Arryn's office, the elderly man could decide what to do with the body.
Giving Jon Arryn the vials of healing and regeneration and the golden apple was risky, especially since he would need to explain to Lysa what these things exactly were. Then it would only be a matter of time until Petyr Baelish would hear of what Torrhen had gifted Jon Arryn. But that was calculated.
Petyr must be rising in Gulltown by now but he won't have access to large amounts of coin just yet Torrhen thought with a grim smile. If he was right then Petyr would see an opportunity to make immense amounts of coin from these vials and would sooner or later end up trying to find out just exactly where these had come from.
That would inevitably lead him to Skane and to Frostgate where Hermione, Wanda and Asajj were storing more and more potions for the eventual war against the Night King. Torrhen would wait at Forstgate for Petyr Baelish and let him walk straight into a trap.
**Scene Break**