Drystan Magnar tugged on his red-grey beard in growing consternation as his fellow lords of Skagos bickered before him atop his high table, their men eating a quiet affair in the lower hall. Their banners were proudly worn by their men; the green lobster on a field of white of Magnar, the driftwood tree on a field of green of Stane, and the plyflame on a field of black of Crowl.
"We've got to do something about it!" Lord Belmar Crowl beseeched, slapping a meaty hand against the flat stone table they feasted upon. His bowl of stew rattled with the movement. Big and balding and of a bellowing voice, Belmar was a hard man to ignore.
"And what can we do?" questioned Sindri Stane, Lord of Driftwood Hall. He was thin and tall, a reedy sort of man with an oily disposition. "You've seen it. We've all seen it. Big as a whale and twenty times as mean, belching fire strong enough to break stone with a roar louder than a warhorn. Men were not meant to combat that. Why should I risk my people?"
"The bounty!" Belmar annunciated, as if talking to a slow child. "A million gold pieces to the man that kills the dragon, straight from the coffers of King's Landing. Imagine what we could do with that! We could trade and build ships once more, we could bring crops and livestock to our steeps, and we'd have plenty enough gold left over to hire builders to fix our halls."
That would be well needed, he thought, taking a spoonful of stew. Kingshouse was the greatest castle of Skagos, the ancestral home of House Magnar, though to call it a castle would be a lie. Similar to the Mormont's of Bear Isle, the keep of House Magnar was built of great logs surrounded by an earthen palisade. It went deep into the southern rim of Skagos, an underground fortress of stone and copper and obsidian mined through the ages. And yet, though Drystan was proud of his home, he knew it could be more.
Skagos held a vested history and held a people that were once proud to be called Skaggossons. The last time anybody boasted of being Skagosi had been a century ago, when his grandfather rebelled against the Starks and their Targaryen masters. At that time, Skagos had amassed an army of fifteen thousand strong, men and women all, and for a grand five years the songs of freedom had been sung. A time in which islanders neared their dream of returning to the seas, damn the words of an ancient King in the North.
But Drystan's grandfather, ambitious and cunning though he was, was also a fool. He'd killed Lord Barthogan Stark during a peace-talk and brought the hammer of Westeros down on Skagos. Almost all of their forces had been put into the ground by the combined might of the Seven Kingdoms, their homes sacked and raided, and Skagos had never recovered. Certainly not when a four-year winter hit right after. So weak were they that Oldtown refused to allow them maesters now.
Much of Kingshouse could not be accessed any more, underground tunnels collapsed and histories gone. House Crowl's own seat of Deepdown was close to a ruin, barely functionable as a family home. Driftwood Hall was the only seat of Skagos to not feel the full wrath of Westeros, and yet it was still small and feeble when compared to the remnant of Kingshouse. Though House Magnar was significantly weaker than it once was, Crowl and Stane still looked to it for leave.
"And how are we supposed to kill it?" Sindri asked. "Between the three of us, we've perhaps a thousand ready fighters, men and women alike, and half as many children if we were truly desperate for numbers. Their weapons are bronze and dragonglass with a handful of iron arms. Not much armor, either. Put that against a dragon? They'd sooner march us out of our halls than deal with such a mess."
"We've got to try," Belmar declared. "This has been the longest summer I've ever faced, and a worse winter is like to follow. We need the gold, it's the only way. Unless…"
"No." Drystan stated clearly, taking in the way his fellow lord looked towards his hall mantle. "I know what you mean to ask, and I say no. I will not part with it."
"Drystan," Belmar pled, still staring at the weapon mounted above a great brazier roaring with fire. "Think on it, please. Think on our children and our people. If you sell it to the right person, it'd be worth as much as that dragons head is."
"It might. Still, I will not." He would never part with Sveik, the Valyrian steel axe of House Magnar. Drystan hadn't much left to have pride in these days and he'd certainly not give up his house treasure. Were he old and grey and without an heir, he might have considered it. But Drystan was still able and had three sons and soon a grandson. Sveik would not leave his hall.
Five hundred years ago, Durrel Magnar accompanied Prince Artos Stark to Valyria for some reason or other. Drysten knew not why he went and didn't much care either, but he returned with the axe and gave a symbol to his name. Sharp and cruel and wrought in a rune inscribed branch of carved weirwood, Sveik was the perfect northern weapon. It was the pride of his family, its name loosely translating the Rend in the common tongue, and now that it was returned to him, he'd not see it lost.
After Kingshouse had been sacked and his grandfather slain, Sveik had been lost within the ruined halls of his keep. Drysten's father, Asher, spent most of his life digging for the axe, eventually succumbing to the mining fits. Drysten had thought the axe lost and continued to do so until Fallon, his daughter of twelve, came across it in an exploration three years ago. She was just skinny enough to fit through the cracks leading to the old lords solar, where the axe had been unknowingly kept.
"If the beast comes near, we will fight it." Drystan decided. It seemed a safe statement, for he'd never seen the dragon go anywhere that was not within Skagos's mainland, an almost inhospitable place for humans. The shoreline was the only chance they had at surviving this place, with fish aplenty and farming soil. "If it keeps to itself, we will ignore it."
"It roosts on our land! We need to press our advantage before another lord catches tell of its patterns."
"I've made my mind, Belmar. Allow me to-"
A deep, reverberating, familiar sound echoed through the Kingshouse. It shook the walls and rumbled the floors and echoed a building scream amongst his men.
Of course it shows up now, Drystan groaned, rushing away from his food, grabbing Sveik in a mad dash. Right when I declare that I'll fight it when it does. The gods like to play games.
Belmar ran by his side looked nervous and excited, like a pup swimming its first lap. "Men! Bolt up! TO ARMS!"
His response was a harried grumble of slurs and cheers. Drystan couldn't blame the men, were he a fighter 'neath Belmar's banner he'd cuss him out too.
"Would it not be wiser to wait it out within your hall?" Sindri asked, looking suitably nervous. Smart fellow.
"Aye, it would be. But I made my mind and said what I meant, and my hand has been forced. We'll meet that demon and make to take the gold its head is worth."
It did not take long to reach the outside. The skies above did not open this day, hanging low over mountain hills. A vast, deep mist dragged the battlements, distorting Drystan's sight like an overfogged glass.
But even though much could not be seen, the dragon was much and more. Its bulk was visible through the mist, a darkness banking through the mush. Drystan gripped Sveik with fear, his knuckles white and his palms cracking.
Then the dragon descended, and he got a good look at the beast.
Massive did it a disservice. Serpentine and terrible, its teeth were great like swords and its skull a crown of four curved horns sharp enough to run a mammoth through. Scales like stone, grey and foreboding, with the slightest tint of green showing through, a coloration like Skagos itself. Its wings were great and bat-like, with a yellow pattern of some sort twisting over tis membranes. And-
"Drem yol lok, greetings." the dragon said amiably, nodding its head lowly.
…There was more, so much more that needed to be said.
"It talks?" Belmar whispered, the only one of them not stunned to the point of mute. His iron-wrought club hung loose in his surprise.
"He does," a voice said from above the dragon. Heads swerved towards the voice and caught glimpse of a man hitting the dirt from its neck.
He was big, bigger than Belmar to be certain. Six-and-a-half feet, Drystan would say, maybe a hair shorter. A long mane of curly black hair rested atop his shoulders, and a patchy beard of the same make was secure on his chin. He'd a long face, with grey eyes and high cheeks. Looked pretty, too pretty. Drystan would have cursed him a southerner with those looks had it not been for the dragon he rode.
"We've much to talk about, my lords."
Jon hadn't really a plan after this point.
With a daughter to care for and the dead soon to march, he'd thought it a prudent time to escort the Children of the Forest away from the lands beyond the Wall. However, as he learned quite clearly, though they were not men, they were northerners all the same and stubbornness bred true to all that lived amongst the snow. The Children were not against moving, now that they had young to care for it seemed a fair thought, but they would not settle for just anything.
Jon had first offered the Wolfswood. A high forest seemed to suit the Children well. And yet, though they were named the Children of the Forest, they did not require a forest at all. The Wolfswood was too much the property of man, and they refused to play their games. Beyond the Wall, the free folk understood not to bother the Children should they be seen. Men south of the Wall would not follow that same thought.
Then Jon offered the Gods Eye, a sacred place. And once more, they rejected his notion. It was sacred to men that followed the Old Gods, but the Children saw it as a final stand. It was a bitter reminder of times of war for their people.
The Vale of Arryn was thrown out, as was any land that had much of men. That removed most of Westeros. And Essos was of the wrong climate for them, it seemed. Sothoryos even worse. Fed up of their constant "No's," Jon asked where they wanted to go.
Unanimously, the Children pointed to Stinmirnahl.
He was the reason their numbers grew so quickly, and they wished to continue to increase their population. Thus, it only made sense for them to live where he did.
Which brought Jon to Skagos.
Larger than all the islands of Westeros put together, it cut an intimidating figure. Unlike a normal island, with sand and stone and livery, Skagos was all rock and steeps. Actually, to call Skagos an island did it a disservice. This was not an island, this was a mountain that rose from the ocean floor as opposed to the mainland. A mountain greater than any within the Vale of Arryn or the Fourteen Flames, large enough to be a kingdom its own, had it the resources to claim such.
Its peak scarred the skies, more than five miles high. Treacherous currents slapped listlessly against its great expanse, a harmless bug against the bulk of a giant. Deeply slanted slopes angled a southward trail, where dogs and wolves and unicorns roamed perilously. Of that that was not mountain, small patches of red weirwood leaves decorated the island.
It fit the description of what a dragon's nest should be quite neatly.
But Skagos was not as removed of men as its terrain would suggest. The Skagossons still lived here, and for the Children to feel comfortable, Jon had to claim it as his territory. They would not settle for less. Brynden had given Jon a strong lesson on their peoples, their customs and current plights, and he felt himself able to make his case.
Which was why he was now in the presence of the lords of Skagos. They were sat around the Godswood of the Kingshouse, a field of rock and stone with a pair of intertwined weirwoods of different faces, one smiling whilst the other frown. Hulking boulders covered in thick moss decorated the field, hiding their talks from the rest of the world.
"So," Drystan Magnar began, searching for words. "You ride a dragon."
"His name is Stinmirnahl." At his name, the dovah cried out from the skies. He flew a low canter, his ears open to threats and eyes keen on any that would disturb.
"Uh- strong name," stuttered Sindri Stane. "Guttural, like the Old Tongue. But it is not the Old Tongue, for we all speak it."
"Keep from small talk," spat Belmar Crowl. "Who the fuck are you?"
Jon raised a brow. "I've not yet been given bread and salt."
"Because you're not welcome! Guest rights are meant for guests, not intruders who-"
Lord Magnar held up a hand, bringing the Crowl quiet. He stared at Jon for a fair time, his blue eyes hard, and then he jerked his head. A man approached with a small scrap of bread and a bowl. Jon took it greedily and ate, happy to have avoided a fight.
"My name's Jon Snow."
"Name's familiar…" Lord Stane hemmed. "Jon Snow… Jon… The bastard of Winterfell?"
Jon nodded. "We're one and the same."
"Little Lord Ned sent ravens here for the first time since the Greyjoy Rebellion about you over a year ago," Lord Belmar chuckled darkly. "A pocket of gold to the man that returned you to him alive. One of my cousins took a fishing boat past the Wall for those coins."
"He's likely dead." Jon shrugged. What did he care for an ambitious lordling?
"Probably," nodded the lord. "He was a dumb little cunt anyway, tried to rally my men to his claim. Good riddance."
"Regardless, you are here, and you've a dragon." Lord Magnar stated. "Why are you here? Where did the dragon come from? How does it speak? Why does it listen to you?"
"So many questions," Jon japed, his smile thin. "I am here because Stinmirnahl is here. He's chosen Skagos as his nest, and I go where my friend goes."
"He keeps to the mainland, around the peaks. We do not, Jon Snow. Ours is the southern shore. There is no reason for you to bother us about this."
"Ah, but you're wrong. Beyond the Wall, I found more than just Stinmirnahl. I've a daughter now, and I mean to have her and her mother follow. Their clan is intent on following me, a people that seem to find my lead worthy, and I mean to have them here as well. And if they're decent, more clans will be welcome."
"Wildlings on Skagos?" hissed Lord Stane. "One of them stole an aunt of mine, raped her and killed her for a supper of onions she'd cooked. They're savages. I'll not have it."
"You will," Jon stated, walking over to the man. They were of a similar size, but Jon looked to have almost six stone on the thin lord. "I come here not to threaten you into submission, but to tell you lords a plain truth. For centuries your houses have held Skagos. I will not root you from your homes, but no longer will your control be held. I claim Skagos."
"A King-beneath-the-Mountain then?" Lord Magnar asked, his body shifting, hand hovering over the grip of his axe. The two men by his side swelled in outrage. "We've not seen an attempt since my grandfather, boy."
"Gods no," Jon snorted, honestly surprised. He shouldn't have been, now that he thought on it. It was a fair assumption. "I'd be a fool if I wanted to be a king. They've long hours and short lives, and I mean to live till I'm old and grey without a care to my name. No, kingship is not my goal. But I will be bringing peoples from beyond the Wall to Skagos anyway, and you'll not stop me."
"Mayhap we can't, but Westeros can. One raven and you'll have the war-hungry king readying his fleet to see you dead."
"A fair point," Jon allowed. He began to pace a circle around them, a slow movement that was deliberate. "But then, you'd foil your own people doing this. Send that raven and I'll do nothing as the southerners turn your keeps to ruins. Send the raven and I'll not lift a finger when they murder your men and butcher your children and rape your women. Send the raven, and I won't have to do anything. The South will destroy Skagos. And when they leave, I'll take what's left."
The lords of Skagos grimaced, recognizing the hard truth held in his words. Jon kept his quiet for a few minutes, allowing their thoughts to stew before he spoke once more.
"However, there remains another thought. There need be no destruction. Swear yourself to me. I'll see you treated fairly and ensure that your three houses rise beyond their current lot."
"And how'll you do that?" Belmar growled. "There's barely anything here. We've nothing to trade, nothing worth anything. Add the mouths you intend to bring here and there'll be no food 'fore long."
Instead of offering an answer, Jon just dug a hand through his side satchel, his eyes never leaving the lord. Then he found what he wished and tossed it to the head of House Crowl.
Belmar kept his stare hard but did spare a glance towards the ground where what Jon threw landed. A thin dagger with a fur scabbard lay at his feet.
"A piece of scrap iron?" The lord snorted.
"You must be quite rich to call Valyrian steel such."
His black eyes went wide at that, and he hastily grabbed the knife. Sure enough, the blade held the signature smoky ripples of spell-forged steel found only in Valyrian make.
"I'm not going to waste more time with you lot," Jon said. The three were staring at the dagger in undisguised interest. He pulled two more out of his bag. "We're all of the North and I'm not that big of a cunt. I will give you the pick-me-up you need. I've got a dagger for each of you, to use as you see fit. The next time traders come to Skagos, sell them or board their vessel and sell them from where they came. You'll have gold enough help your homes and people."
"Where'd you get those?" Stane queried, quiet with awe.
"Valyria."
"Nobody's been to Valyria since the Doom."
"Wrong. Plenty have been since the Doom. Nobody's returned, though. But none of the people that meant to scrounge Valyria had Stinmirnahl, and they weren't anywhere near as stubborn as I was."
"…I-" Lord Magnar started, straining to use his words. "If this is your bargain I do not… mind; swearing to you, that is."
"Drystan!" Belmar protested.
"He's got a dragon, Belmar." Sighed the lord. "And he's been fair. I remember my youth and arrogance, and I remember yours as well. Had we a dragon, we'd have burned the North without a shred of remorse, consequences be damned. We'd have sicced the thing on our enemies and allies alike to get our way."
"Dry-"
"Jon Snow could have done that from the start," Drystan Magnar harshly bit. "Could have fucked us all in the arse before we even knew it was happening. Kingshouse could have been an oven and we the serving."
Lord Crowl grew green and pale at the thought. The colors of House Magnar, Jon thought with irony.
"I refused to sell Sveik because it was the treasure of my family and the legacy I mean to pass to Broden, my son and heir. But these daggers… I have no care for them. I'd sell them without a shred of remorse. You lot told me we needed money. Well, here it is. We need this."
"So, you'll swear yourself to me?"
"No."
Jon blinked, befuddled and confused and quickly growing in anger. "No?"
"I cannot bend the knee to a man that carries the name Snow." He declared.
"I'll not waste my time getting legitimized for your damn pride. Need be, I'll just torch you. The idea of the oven was one I hadn't thought on, but it held merit."
"I mean nothing of the sort," the man said, his arms raised in peace. "Do you have any clue on how our own houses were formed? How we were named?"
"Not a one."
"Few do," he allowed. "Magnar. Crowl. Stane. There used to be more Skagosi houses, but we're all that remain. In the common tongue, they're just words. In the Old Tongue, they've got meaning. House Magnar came first, we descend from wildlings. I'll admit my ancestry easily enough. The first Lord of House Magnar was a chieftain that figured out how to sail, and he led his people around the Wall to survive a harsh blizzard that destroyed their camp beyond the Wall. They worshiped him for this and called him Magnar. It means Lord. For a wildling to willingly call anybody lord is a rare thing, Jon Snow."
Drystan waved a hand towards Belmar. "Crowl can mean three things: Keep, Grow, Shield. House Crowl descends from House Magnar. A branch family that earned their lordship by deflecting a slaving raid from the east."
"House Stane started as simple fishers." Sindri spoke for himself. "My ancestors claim to have created the first nets out of twine and vines. They saved Skagos from a famine that was expected to have killed almost everyone off. Stane translates to Save, or Savior if you're using the correct tense."
"Lord, Shield, Save." Drystan outlined. "Our houses started from little and earned their names with their deeds. We cannot follow a Snow for that is not a name or a deed."
"You follow the Starks well enough." Jon countered, his brow furrowed.
"The Starks are not of Skagos." Belmar grumbled. "Skagos customs aren't mainland customs. We're of the North, but not truly."
"If you want us to declare you Lord of Skagos, you'll take a Skagosi name." Drystan Magnar stated, clear and concise and very serious.
Jon frowned a heavy thing, taking a seat on a gnarled ledge of stone. He'd never meant to not be a bastard. Bastardry made this second life a light and enjoyable thing. The names of Stark and Targaryen were heavy, with expectations beyond anything he wanted thrust upon him. He'd rather have been a Snow.
But this was different. This was not having a name that an ancestor made famous foisted on him. This was a name all his own, a name with which he would forge his own legacy for. Just as Hearthome had once been, a lifetime ago.
Did he really want that? A life like that?
No, not really.
But Ash… She was his daughter, and the spawn of one of the Children of the Forest. The Children were going to be moved to Skagos, and that meant that they'd interact with Man. Ash would interact with Man.
Some would accept her. Many would not. They would call her an abomination, a freak.
Just as he would for Astrid and Emer and Bolvar, Jon would do anything for Ash. Anything at all to make it so she'd the chance for a better life.
Even if that meant he take a fucking name he couldn't care less about.
"Fine. I'll take a name."
They knelt before him, Magnar then Stane and then Crowl with an air of begrudging acceptance. Drystan spoke for them, as he'd done for most of this talk.
"For the chance you have given our people and the daggers you bring, I name you Steel. Skruul. House Magnar pledges fealty to Jon of House Skruul."
"House Stane does as well."
"House Crowl will do so too."
And thus, Jon Snow became Jon Skruul, Lord of Skagos, with Houses Magnar, Stane, and Crowl as his vassals.
…It could have been worse.
Boom! That took a little while to figure out, but not nearly as long as I feared. So, we've got Jon a name and a lordship and a little bit of weight, and now the Game of Thrones begins in full. Had a lot of fun deep diving into the Skagos houses. Basically made up their lore aside from the rebellion that happened a century ago. That was legit.
Next chapter will bring us to the main story. Still figuring out how it'll go, but yeah. We're finally there folks! Canon ahoy!
Oh, and just as a note for those that are interested. Skruul is pronounced like School but with an 'r' in the middle of it.
I also wanted to make a note. The reason I'm pumping these out is because I've got a major opportunity coming up in May and will probably be taking a break from FF by then. Wanted to leave some good stuff to read before that happens.
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