In Planetos As Light Human

292 AC

Highgarden

Highgarden's port, vibrant with the hum of trade and the scent of roses, shimmered under the midday sun as a 3 mast galley ship glided into the harbor, its sails bearing the emblem of Braavosi wealth. The ship's arrival drew the gaze of merchants and guards alike, signaling a visit steeped in intrigue and importance.

A tall Northern man with stark white hair stepped onto the creaking wooden dock of Highgarden's bustling port. Draped in an elegant gold-and-white striped yukata, the fabric shimmered faintly in the sunlight, a striking contrast to the muted tones of the sailors bustling around him. Behind him, a sleek ship bore the unmistakable sigil of the Iron Bank—golden hourglass with two hands—its sails rippling in the gentle breeze. 

The air was thick with the mingling scents of salt and blooming roses from the Reach. A contingent of Highgarden's marched towards him. Their expressions held a mix of curiosity and apprehension, "Woah, last I checked, I've never been to Highgarden nor met your lord," the Northerner replied, his hands raised high in a gesture of peace. "Why the hostility?"

"Light Emperor," one of the guards began, his voice firm but respectful, "in the name of Lord Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Lord paramount of the reach and Warden of the south, we request that you follow us to the castle. Our lord has business with you."

Just then, a middle-aged bald man came running down the dock, shouting, "How dare you threaten my lord! I'll have your heads for disgracing the key!"

"Magister Pytho!" the Northerner roared, his voice carrying such ferocity that it made everyone nearby flinch.

"Remember what I said about keeping a low profile," he muttered, his tone calmer now. "Let's follow them and see what the bloated lord has to offer."

The guards exchanged sour glances, but the Magister of the Iron Bank, bowing deeply, responded, "Yes, my lord. Lead the way guards!!."

The Northerner nodded, his eyes narrowing with a mix of suspicion and curiosity, as they followed the guards toward Highgarden's towering walls.

The grand hall of Highgarden was a tapestry of vibrant colors and rich tapestries, with sunlight streaming through high stained-glass windows depicting the Tyrell sigil. The air was heavy with the fragrance of roses, blending awkwardly with the tension crackling in the room. 

Lord Mace Tyrell, clad in opulent green and gold robes, sat atop his throne, flanked by his entourage a cluster of advisors and bannermen.

As the Northern man, now escorted into the hall, stood before the gathered nobles, he appeared unimpressed by the grandeur. He gave a casual bow, his white hair catching the sunlight as he rose with a wry grin.

"Ah, the infamous Emperor of Light," Mace boomed, his voice a mixture of forced cheer and thinly veiled condescension. "I've heard whispers of your exploits. Tell me, is it true you ventured into the ruins of Valyria? And some say you once laid waste to all of Volantis."

The Northerner raised an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest. "Yes and no," he replied with an easy smirk. "It was only a portion of the city. One of their Triarchs managed to piss me off."

Mace leaned forward, his conspiratorial grin widening. "Fascinating. But your youthful face betrays the weight of such tales. Tell me, were you born in Yi Ti? And yet..." He paused, studying the Northerner intently. "Your face and eyes—there's similar to the barbarians of the north."

The room seemed to grow heavier, the air thick with tension as a palpable unease spread. Some in the hall shifted uncomfortably, struggling to breathe as the pressure intensified.

"Tread your next words carefully!" the Northerner growled, his tone cold as ice and sharper than a blade.

Mace hesitated, his grin faltering for a heartbeat, before he pressed on. "I wish to hire you to rid me of a serpent that slithers across the Narrow Sea," he said, his frustration bubbling to the surface.

The Northerner and the Magister of the Iron Bank exchanged a glance before both burst into laughter, their voices echoing through the hall like a thunderclap.

"You want me to play assassin?" the Northerner said between bouts of laughter. "Perhaps you should hire the Faceless Men instead. Offer them that belly fat of yours as payment!"

Mace's face turned a deep crimson, rivaling the roses adorning his banners. His fist came crashing down on the armrest of his gilded chair with a resounding thud. "You dare mock me in my own hall?!" he roared. "I offer you gold, protection, influence—"

Every guard and knight in the room drew their weapons, pointing them toward the Northerner and the Magister. The tension was electric, but the Northerner merely smirked, raising his hands mockingly. "Oh no," he said dryly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "So scary."

Just as the guards prepared to take action, the grand doors burst open with a resounding crash. A second Northerner entered the hall, his unkempt hair and overgrown beard giving him a wild, rugged appearance. Behind him, Willas Tyrell, the heir to Highgarden, was being wheeled into the room, his attendants struggling to keep up.

"Stand down, you fools!" Willas shouted, his voice firm despite his seated position. "Father, are you trying to start a civil war by killing your future son-in-law?"

A murmur rippled through the hall, and Mace Tyrell's face contorted with confusion. "Future son-in-law?" he stammered.

Ignoring the chaos around them, the Northerner turned sharply, his piercing gaze locking onto the other Northman. "Jory? Is that you?"

Jory Cassel, who had been standing amidst the chaos, stepped forward and bowed. "Yes, my lord," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I was tasked by Lady Stark to find you a year ago. I've searched all of Westeros, but I never imagined you'd be the infamous Emperor of Light."

The Northerner—now revealed as Edric Stark—sighed, running a hand through his stark white hair. "I hate that nickname," he muttered. Then, his brows furrowed as he turned toward Willas. "Wait... what does he mean by 'son-in-law'?"

Willas interjected calmly. "My grandfather, Lord Luthor Tyrell, signed a royal decree to bind House Tyrell and House Stark in marriage. This was in gratitude after your grandfather, Rickard Stark, saved his life during the Ninepenny War."

Edric frowned. "Shouldn't that arrangement have been for our parents' generation? Why us?"

Willas shrugged. "No one knows for certain. Perhaps your grandfather had already secured alliances with the Tullys and Baratheons, leaving us for a later generation. Our grandmother, Olenna, has tried to annul the arrangement several times but failed. And now, with Lord Robert Baratheon as king, the decree is unbreakable."

The hall erupted in murmurs again, and Mace Tyrell's confusion shifted into a sour Expression.

Edric let out a resigned sigh, glancing toward Mace. "Well, this changes everything. I was about to burn this place to the ground. It seems your son has saved your ass, Lord Tyrell."

The Magister, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up. "My lord, the Reach is one of the largest clients. We cannot afford to outright destroy them."

Edric's jaw tightened, but he nodded reluctantly. "You're right" He turned back to Mace. "Lord Tyrell, for kidnapping and attempting to assassinate an heir to Winterfell, you will send an official apology and a detailed list of compensations to my father's desk within three days. Fail to do so, and I will bring this matter before the King's Court in King's Landing."

As Edric, Jory, and pytho turned to leave, Edric stopped at the door and glanced back. His voice rang out, sharp and clear. "Oh, and one more thing. For insulting and kidnapping a Keyholder of the Iron Bank, all new loan requests from the Lords of the Reach will now have their interest rates doubled. Furthermore, Bravosi tariffs on your exports will increase by a quarter of their original amount."

With that, he strode out, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

"Magister, any updates on our plans?" Edric asked, his tone measured but expectant.

"The ship bound to White Harbor reached a week ago, By now, the cargo and gifts should be arriving at winterfell" answered the magister

"The plan to establish Stark Emporium is progressing smoothly," Magister Pytho replied. "We've acquired adequate land near most of the capitals, except Lannisport. Tywin Lannister refuses to grant permission to purchase property within the city's walls." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "My lord, if I may ask—why insist on property inside the city? Considering we're designing them as resort-like establishments, wouldn't the outskirts suffice?"

Edric's lips curled into an ominous grin. "I have... bigger plans for Lannisport," he said cryptically. "And what about the whiskey production?"

"The first distillery should be up and running by now,With New techniques and instruments provided new types of beer and ale are being produced as we speak - 'clear spirits' you call it has given us new insights on alcohol production and we cant thank you enough for giving us proprietary rights to make and sell it"

Pytho paused, his expression darkening slightly. "However, there is some unfortunate news. We just received word this morning that the plan to open a branch office in the North was blocked. Some of the other Keyholders argued that the bank's management is excessively favorable toward you. That said, the bank has seen tremendous profits lately, especially from the insurance policy you introduced. The destruction of the Greyjoy fleet brought in less claims from sea merchants than previous years, The new magister assigned has starting making better contracts in a way such that we are the benefactors at any cost."

Edric's expression one of calm confidence. "They should be grateful, considering how much Valyrian steel I recovered and the ideas I've shared. I could create ten Iron Banks if I wanted to. But no—people are arrogant, blinded by their own egos. The only reason I even chose to work with them was to avoid political nonsense and bureaucracy. And yet, it's a nuisance that clings like a tick."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of snorting and quiet sobs. Jory Cassel stood off to the side, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. "My lord," he managed between sniffles, "you've grown so much."

Edric blinked, momentarily startled, before chuckling softly. "Oh, right. We forgot about you, Jory. Good job finding me, truly. But as for traveling together..." He waved a hand dismissively. "It's too slow and dreadfully boring."

Turning to Pytho, Edric continued, "You'll take Jory with you to Seagard. From there, he can make his way to Winterfell by land. That should suffice."

"As you wish, my lord," Pytho said with a deferential bow.

"One more thing," Edric added, his voice taking on a sharper edge. "When you stop at Lannisport, negotiate with Tywin Lannister. Secure buildings within the city where we can establish a secret base of operations. Make it discreet—something no one will find. Do whatever it takes. Am I clear?"

"Perfectly clear, my lord," Pytho replied, his expression resolute.

Edric nodded, satisfied. "Well then, safe travels to you both. I'll see you again when you reach winterfell."

As he spoke, Edric's body began to shimmer, his outline glowing faintly as golden light rippled across his form. His features became almost translucent as he turned into a streak of blinding light, illuminating the corridor in a dazzling display. In the blink of an eye, the light streaked out of the room, speeding northward toward Winterfell.

Jory stood frozen, his jaw slack, staring at the now-empty space where Edric had stood. "Wha... what in the old gods was that?" he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.

Pytho adjusted his robes, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It never fails to intrigue me," he said with a chuckle. "Every time I see him do that, it's as if the laws of this world bend to his will."

Jory shook his head, still staring at the doorway. "He's not the boy I knew... not anymore."

"Indeed," Pytho replied, his tone almost reverent. "He's something far greater now."