Comments and Reviews would be welcome as always. :)
I have created a family tree for Torrhen and Lyarra, so far noble families I have added are Rayder, Craftson, Ryswell, Dustin, Bolton, Stark, Mormont, Targaryen, Tully, Martell, Baratheon, Lannister and Frey.
My plans are to add Hightower properly as well as Blackwood, Whent, Dayne, Tyrell, Florent, Arryn and more.
All in all so far I have added 165 people to the family tree. If you have no hobbies like I do and like family trees then you can click on the link below and you can have some oversight of who's who and such.
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Eighth Moon of 286 AC, Pentos:
POV: Illyrio Mopatis
The candles in the great chamber of the manse burned low, their orange glow casting long shadows across the golden trim of the Myrish carpet. Illyrio Mopatis sat reclined in his silk-cushioned chair, fingers adorned with rings tapping idly against a goblet of chilled pear wine. Before him, the hearth crackled and hissed.
He did not look up when the heavy doors creaked open and his messenger finally returned.
"You took longer than expected," Illyrio said without greeting, eyes still fixed on the flickering fire. "Was the House of Black and White so difficult to find… or are you simply slow?"
The man—cloaked in sea-dust and road-weariness—stepped forward, bowed low, and pulled back his hood.
"They were not hard to find, Magister," he said, voice hoarse. "But hard to bargain with. It took three weeks before they agreed to even meet me in truth."
Illyrio finally turned, one bushy eyebrow raised.
"And?"
The man swallowed. "They will take the contract… but they name their price. Five hundred thousand bravoosi gold coins."
The goblet slipped slightly in Illyrio's fingers, sloshing wine over the rim. His eyes narrowed, heavy lids twitching.
"That," he said softly, "is extortion."
"They believe the target has defied the Many-Faced God once already. Perhaps more than once. And they are hesitating because of all the rumours coming from the Skywalkers' lands."
Illyrio set the goblet aside and rose slowly to his feet. "They are killers," he growled. "Not priests."
"They said he is... something different. A rising legend. A man whose name is sung by those beyond the Wall and feared by many in Westeros. One of their number whom I have spoken to called him an enemy of Death itself."
Illyrio's heavy mouth twisted into a sneer.
"I know who he is, you fool. Torrhen Skywalker. I've read the reports. I know what he did at the Red Keep. I know about his diamond guard, his castle and the new port. The fools in Westeros see a miracle, but I see a threat. The boy builds an empire of iron and illusion, and it must be ended before it grows teeth sharp enough to bite Essos."
He paused, pacing once toward the latticed window, through which the orange light of Pentos's lanterns danced on distant canals.
"So be it," he muttered. "Pay the price. I will see it sent in gold and silver, hidden among spice crates and carpets bound for Braavos."
He turned back. "And the Faceless?"
The messenger hesitated. "They said… one is already here. In Pentos. Waiting only for confirmation to act."
A long silence followed. The hearth hissed.
Illyrio closed his eyes and exhaled. "Good. Then let the god of death knock upon the gates of Frostgate himself."
He paused. "And let us see who answers."
**Scene Break**
Eighth Moon of 286 AC, Braavos:
POV: Torrhen Skywalker
The mist rolled over the canals of Braavos like low clouds, veiling bridges and gondolas alike in a damp hush. The Titan had let them pass without incident — Torrhen had made sure of that with a generous gift to Ferrego's court, a small crate filled with Neverrack that turns out, burns forever, something they should have probably realised could make for an amazing export good a little sooner. It definitely made for a good gift however, Braavos respected miracles and some red stuff that burns forever? Definetely a miracle.
Rhaenys stood beside him on the prow of the modest merchant vessel, her eyes wide with wonder as the thousand lights of the city gleamed off the water. "It's beautiful," she whispered.
"It is," Torrhen agreed. "But never forget — beauty hides knives here."
The ship moored at a quiet pier near the Purple Harbor. Torrhen disembarked with six of the Diamond Guard in unmarked leathers, their eyes sharp beneath hoods.
When they reached it The great doors of Ferrego's Palace opened with a deep groan, revealing a hall of marble, mosaic, and misted glass. Braavos, ever theatrical, had fashioned its center of power as a blend of cathedral and stage.
Torchlight flickered along mirrored pillars. At the end of the long hall sat Ferrego Antaryon himself — a short, square-shouldered man with hawkish eyes and a crown of lacquered black iron worked into the shape of sea serpents. His robes were violet, slashed with gold. A fat grey cat dozed at his feet, Syrio Forel, Braavos' First Sword stood behind him.
"Lord Torrhen Skywalker of Skane," a herald announced in High Valyrian and again in the common tongue.
Torrhen stepped forward, flanked by two of his Diamond Guards who carried with them two simple wooden crates.
Ferrego waved his cat away and stood. "You come bearing gifts?"
Torrhen offered a polite bow. "Of a sort, Your Sublime Grace. I wished our conversation to begin with wonder, not merely words."
He motioned to the guards, who opened the first crate.
Inside lay brick-like chunks of deep red rock — flecked with black, as if volcanic stone had been stained with blood.
Ferrego arched a brow. "What am I looking at?"
Torrhen smiled faintly. "Netherrack. A stone found in a realm not known to your world. Touch a flame to it — once — and it will burn for as long as you permit it. Even if the air is cold enough to freeze water.
Ferrego gestured, and a servant stepped forward with a taper. A single brick was removed and lit.
The moment the flame caught, the stone burst into life — not like a campfire, but with a hungry red-orange glow that radiated a strange heat. The flames licked upward with little smoke, dancing with unnatural life.
The cat hissed and retreated.
Ferrego leaned forward, now truly interested. "And the other gift?"
Torrhen nodded, and the second crate was opened.
Nestled inside lay a longsword of glinting blue hue — not steel, not Valyrian, but flawless diamond, with an obsidian pommel (and had that not been a pain in the ass for Frostgate's smiths). The blade was longer than most Braavosi styles, more Northern in design — but it sang of quality even to the untrained eye.
Ferrego stepped down from his dais and lifted the blade himself. His arms strained slightly, but not too much — the balance was perfect.
"I've seen Valyrian steel," he said softly, rotating the sword under the chandelier light. "This… this is something else."
"I have no name for it in your tongue," Torrhen said. "Only that it was forged in fire beyond any foundry in Essos."
Ferrego placed the blade gently back in the crate and turned to Torrhen with a new expression — wary interest, now tempered with ambition.
"You're not just a merchant lord," he said. "What do you want?"
Torrhen didn't waste time.
"I want warships. Fifty. Braavosi galleys — fast, lean, built for both trade and defense. Ten of them fully crewed and armed at the time of delivery. The rest to be supplied bare for my own crews to outfit."
Ferrego blinked. "Fifty?" A long silence. "That would cost—"
"Five hundred thousand gold dragons," Torrhen said smoothly. "Payable over ten years. Fifty thousand annually. I can offer collateral, of course — gems, goods, crates of netherrack if you want"
Ferrego narrowed his eyes. "And what will you do with this fleet?"
"Defend the North once war comes" Torrhen said plainly.
A faint smile touched Ferrego's lips. "You speak of war as if it's a certainty."
"War is always certain," Torrhen said. "Only the timing is uncertain."
Ferrego studied him a long moment.
"You'll make your annual payments in coin — not barter?"
Torrhen inclined his head. "Coin. And timely. I am not in the business of disappointing allies."
"And if you default?"
Torrhen's tone darkened just slightly. "Then Skane falls. But I would not bet against me, Your Grace. Many already have."
At last, Ferrego gave a slow nod.
"Done. Fifty ships. Ten fully manned. Five hundred thousand dragons over ten years. We will draft a contract within the day."
Torrhen bowed deeply. "Then I thank you, Sealord of Braavos. May this be the start of a fruitful relationship."
Ferrego gestured to his steward. "Have the docks prepare a formal inspection. And tell the shipwrights to begin work by nightfall. This will be the largest naval commission Braavos has seen since the Fourth Century."
As Torrhen turned to leave, the crate of netherrack still burned brightly — its flames casting dancing shadows behind him.
**Scene Break**
Rhaenys clung close to his side as they made their way through narrow alleys and shadowed streets.
They repeatedly asked for the remaining Targaryens (and Torrhen didn't even bother to be subtle about it) until, at last, they reached a modest house set behind a narrow courtyard filled with lilacs and old Myrish stonework. A red door was at the front and it was there that Torrhen knocked — thrice, then once more.
The door opened slowly, revealing a grey-bearded man with tired eyes and an old sword at his hip.
"Ser Willem," Torrhen said simply.
The knight blinked, confused. Then his eyes fell upon the girl standing beside Torrhen, half-shielded by his cloak.
"...Rhaenys?" he asked, voice hoarse.
Rhaenys hesitated only a heartbeat before stepping forward. "Hello, Ser Willem. My mother said you were kind to us. To me. Before… everything."
Willem Darry dropped to his knees.
"By the Seven," he whispered. "You live. You live..."
Rhaenys embraced him without another word. Torrhen gave them a moment, watching silently until footsteps sounded behind Willem — and then came the boy. Pale-haired, gangly, wary. A girl followed him with uncertain steps, younger still, no more than two, peeking around the doorframe.
Viserys Targaryen and Daenerys.
Torrhen gave a small, tired smile. "We have much to speak of."
The house was quiet later that night save for the and the soft breath of the slumbering Targaryens. Torrhen stood at the window while Ser Willem sat stiffly, the light of the hearth casting deep shadows beneath his eyes.
"So," Willem said, "why now?"
Torrhen didn't turn around. "Because your time hiding is over. Aegon is dead. Elia is dead. Rhaenys barely escaped. Viserys and Daenerys are exposed here — I know of at least tqo mercantile guilds with ties to Magister Mopatis that monitor this house. One of the faceless ones may already be in the city."
Willem's lips tightened. "You expect me to run?"
"I expect you to come with me," Torrhen said, turning to face him. "To Skane. Where they'll be safe. Where Rhaenys can heal. Where Daenerys can grow without fear. Where Viserys might even learn what it means to be a man worthy of the legacy he dreams of."
Willem scoffed, shaking his head. "And what would I be there? A guest? A prisoner?"
Torrhen stepped forward. "You'll be their protector still — but under my command. Their safety comes first. I have lands and a growing number of guards that obey me without question. You have more enemies than I care to count. You will not defy me in this, Ser Willem."
There was steel in his voice now. Cold and final.
Willem looked down at the floor, hands tightening into fists. At last, he nodded once. "If it is for them… then I will come."
Torrhen let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"We leave at dawn. Quietly. My ship is faster than anything you could hire here."
He paused, then added, "And tell Viserys nothing of my role in the rebellion — not yet. Let him believe I'm a northern noble with ties to his sister. If he asks, say I'm one of Elia's allies from the war. I'll speak to him later."
Willem frowned. "Why not tell him the truth?"
"Because the truth is a blade. And he's still too young and too proud to know how not to cut himself on it."
**Scene Break**
POV: Torrhen Skywalker
The mist hung thick over the Braavosi canal street as the group moved quietly toward the private dock where Torrhen's ship waited. Torrhen led, his traveling cloak pulled low, Rhaenys close behind. Viserys whispered nervously between them a guard carrying a confused Daenerys while Ser Willem kept to the rear, eyes watchful. Six Diamond Guards flanked them in silent formation, blending with the shadows.
They had quickly sold the manse for a cheap price but Torrhen had reassured a worried Willem that the Targaryens would not lack funds on Skane and that they would be treated fairly.
Only a few hundred feet from the dock Torrhen's senses prickled. Something felt wrong.
"Get behind me," he muttered, just as it happened.
Two figures emerged from the people around them — not running, sliding, flowing like shadows from an alley.
Faceless Men.
Torrhen's instincts surged. One of them lunged directly at him, dagger high. The other aimed low — coordinated, precise.
His hand snapped out like lightning, catching the first by the throat mid-leap. There was a sickening crunch — not enough to kill, but enough to stagger the attacker.
The second blade found its mark.
A hot bloom of agony exploded in his abdomen as the dagger sank deep. Torrhen grunted, staggering as he let go of the first assassin.
The Diamond Guards had already moved.
Steel clashed and rang out — two of the guards tackled the freed attacker while another drove a sword through the one who had stabbed Torrhen. The assassin tried to twist away, but was too slow — the sword ran through him, and he fell twitching to the cobblestones.
Torrhen dropped to one knee, a hand pressed to his gut. Blood spilled out in thick ribbons between his fingers.
"Torrhen!" Rhaenys cried.
"Get him on the ship — now!" one of the guards barked, and two others lifted Torrhen with careful speed, breaking into a run.
**Scene Break**
POV: Ser Willem Darry
The wound was bad.
Ser Willem had seen men die from half as much. The young lord was pale, sweat beading on his forehead as he gritted his teeth, lying on a bench in the captain's quarters while blood soaked into his tunic. Rhaenys hovered nearby, shaken but silent, gripping Visery's hand with white-knuckled tension.
"Hold still," one of the guards said.
But Torrhen's hand was already filled with a vial of red liquid. With a grimace, he pulled free a small glass vial filled with bright red liquid that shimmered like rubies in sunlight.
"What is that? Where did you take that from so suddenly?" Ser Willem asked, stepping forward.
Torrhen said nothing — he just uncorked the vial and drank it in one sharp pull.
Willem watched in disbelief as within seconds, the ragged wound in Torrhen's abdomen began to knit itself together. Flesh reformed like clay pulled by invisible strings. The torn tunic was still soaked in blood, but beneath it, the skin was sealing, muscle and tissue aligning beneath pale, unbroken flesh.
In under a minute… it was gone.
Willem stared, speechless. He'd seen healing in his time — poultices, leeches, even rare Maester-brewed draughts — but nothing like this.
"By the Seven…" he whispered.
Torrhen exhaled and slowly sat up, still wincing from pain, but intact. "I really hate getting stabbed," he muttered, wiping blood from his side. "Hurts worse than it looks."
"What in the name of the seven was that?" Willem demanded, sending a quick prayer instinctively.
"Something not of this world," Torrhen replied. "And one of the reasons we need to leave Braavos now."
He turned to the guards. "Burn the bodies. No evidence. No witnesses."
Then, with a tired breath, he looked to Rhaenys, who hadn't stopped watching him since the attack.
"We're safe now," he said softly. "They came early. That means they're scared."
He reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder. "Let them be."
Rhaenys nodded, but Willem could still see the horror and awe in her eyes. She'd just seen a man nearly killed — and then not die.
And Ser Willem Darry had just realized something far more dangerous:
Torrhen Skywalker was not just another lord. He was something else entirely.
**Scene Break**
POV: Rhaenys Targaryen
The waves rocked gently as she sat beside Daenerys on a padded bench in the stern of the vessel bound west. Ser Willem stood near the mast, ever watchful. Viserys stared over the water, brooding as always.
Rhaenys glanced toward Torrhen at the helm, speaking quietly with one of his strange guards in black diamond mail. She smiled to herself. The young man she slowly began to see as her father was simply awesome.
Yes she knew that Torrhen was not actually her father but the man who was had died on the battlefield when she was not even 3 years old and already the face of her actual father slowly faded in her mind. Even before his death, Rhaegar Targaryen had been distant with her, he was kind to her but not like she had seen other fathers treat their children since.
She sighed... she felt safe again. For the first time since she had left Skyport with her mother and her brother... tears welled up in her eyes as she thought of them but she quickly wiped them away. She needed to be strong.
There was still a future for House Targaryen and if she had anything to say about it she would bring fire and blood to it's enemies.
**Scene Break**